


praying

by alverixorcustransfrogamorphus



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 1998), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Gen, torture & angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 19:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alverixorcustransfrogamorphus/pseuds/alverixorcustransfrogamorphus
Summary: "You will be perfect next time, will you not, Constance?" She grits her teeth and grunts back, "Yes." "Yes, Mistress Broomhead." the elder witch says, backhanding Constance across the face, her ring leaving a deep gouge in the younger witch's cheek. "Yes, Mistress Broomhead." -/ Constance Hardbroom has to learn how to fight for herself.





	praying

**_You brought the flames and you put me through hell, I had to learn how to fight for myself, and we both know all the truth I could tell, I’ll just say this is “I wish you farewell.” I hope you’re somewhere praying – Kesha, “Praying” (2017)_ **

_***_

 

praying

 

She draws her breath in in an almighty surge of effort as she attempts to pull herself to her feet again, cutting her palm on the smashed glass of the toadstool jar that she had been blown backwards into moments before. She dares not make a sound to express the pain. But before she can clamber to her feet again she feels her arms whisked out from underneath her, sending her face first onto the cold, cobblestone floor where she tastes blood.

 

“You are a  _disgrace_ ” The high, cold voice yells and she feels pain beyond anything she had ever felt course through her veins. She bites down on her tongue hard, fighting to resist the urge to cry out in pain, to beg for mercy. She knows that all that would bring was more pain, and more misery.

 

“You are by far the  _worst witch_  I have ever had under my instruction.” Another jolt of pain shoots through her, and this time it does not stop. It feels as if every nerve ending has been set on fire. Her screams reverberate off the walls of the dungeon, she can hear her heartbeat in her ears, her vision clouding over from the pain. Surely this was it, surely this was the end. Yet she could not, she would not beg for mercy. The white-hot pain intensifies and a scream of agony leaves her lips for the second time as she feels steel enter and exit her flesh, slicing at her repeatedly as though she were a hunk of meat in a butcher’s shop.

 

And then silence.

 

The white-hot pain ceases and the knives are made visible. She sees them hovering in the air above her, dripping maliciously with her blood. She lies still on the floor, disgusted at the whimpering sounds emanating from her mouth.

 

“Well?” the high voice demands, “What are you going to do, girl?”

 

She draws in her breath and once more attempts to get to her feet. Every inch of her aches, and her blouse, originally the smart white as set by the college is now a deep crimson. Her breath comes in short, laboured bursts as she tries and fails to get to her feet. Stars dance at the edge of her vision and she’s sure that this is going to be the day that she meets her demise.

 

A sharp cackle reverberates throughout the dungeon and she’s thrown backwards for a second time, her head hitting the stone wall of the dungeon with a sickening thump.

 

She could have only lost consciousness for a few seconds, as she was very much awake and aware when a sharp boot drives itself into her midsection and she feels her ribs break, she gasps in pain and struggles for breath, curling into a ball to protect herself from any further attacks.

 

She feels a hand on her long, black ponytail and her head is dragged backwards from its place of safety, so that her eyes are locked with those of her tutors.

 

“What kind of witch, does not know how to identify potions by their smell?!” the crude taunt echoes around the dungeon, “You are utterly useless”

 

She refuses to break eye contact as they stare into each other’s eyes, both fixing the other with a gaze filled with deep, burning hatred. It is the older witch who finally breaks the staring contest, her wicked demeanour transforming into that of a simply strict teacher.

 

“You will be perfect next time, will you not, Constance?”

 

She grits her teeth and grunts back, “Yes.”

 

“Yes _, Mistress Broomhead_.” the elder witch says, backhanding Constance across the face, her ring leaving a deep gouge in the younger witch’s cheek.  

 

“Yes, Mistress Broomhead.” she replies, attempting to keep her voice and face as devoid of emotion as possible. The sickening crunch of her fingers under Mistress Broomhead’s boot as she strides out of the room tells her that she had failed. Just like she always did.

 

***

 

She stands in front of the mirror in her bathroom, her waist length hair cascading down her back as she toys with the pair of scissors in front of her. Today would be the last day that she would allow anybody to use her hair to her disadvantage.

 

She raises them to her shoulder, marking out with her fingers where she would make the first cut and hands trembling, she splays the scissors. She stands there like that, staring at herself in the mirror willing herself to make that cut that would take away an automatic weapon that she could give the world against her. She wants so badly to do it, but she just… can’t.

 

“ _Constance_.”

 

The scissors fall with a clang into the sink as she wheels around, heart pounding in her throat, to meet the eyes of Mistress Broomhead.

 

“M-Mistress Broomhead,” she stammers, fighting to gain control over her emotions and her fear, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

 

She knows she has made a mistake as soon as the words leave her lips. Of course, she didn’t hear Mistress Broomhead come in. Mistress Broomhead did not use doors when she did not want to. The older witch does not, however, reprimand her for the foolish remark, and instead moves towards her. It takes every muscle in Constance’s body to keep her rooted to the spot.

 

“Such  _pretty_  hair, Constance.” she muses, running a hand through her black locks and sending a chill down Constance’s spine as she did so. Her heart hammering faster than ever from the touch of her tutor, her instincts poised, ready should the older witch make a move against her, “You must be ever so proud of it.”

 

She nods slowly, keeping her eyes locked with her tutor’s, refusing to show any sign of fear and attempting to keep her mind blank as a piece of fresh paper, for it was not the first time that Mistress Broomhead had given the impression that she could read her like an open book.

 

Before she knows what is happening, she is choking as something long, thick and black wraps itself around her throat, constricting her windpipe. She grapples with it, trying to pull it away before she realises that it’s her hair. If only she had acted a second sooner, had chopped it all off before Mistress Broomhead arrived.

 

“Emotion, Constance, is the root of all weakness.” Mistress Broomhead says, in a matter of fact tone, as if she were not standing in front of a girl being strangled by her own hair.

 

“If you have any hope of succeeding in this college, you must learn to control your emotions, and discipline your mind. Remorse is only felt by those who are weak.”

 

Her tutor’s hand strikes her across the face as her hair loosens from around her neck. She falls forwards onto her hands and knees, gasping in breath after shaky breath as Mistress Broomhead circles her like a bird of prey.

 

“And that is what you are Constance,  _weak._ ”  Mistress Broomhead says, swooping down to grab Constance’s arm, twisting it forcefully behind her back. She gasps in pain as her tutor dangerously pushes the limits of her flexibility, her bones crying out in pain with every second.

 

“You will be perfect next time, will you not, Constance?” Mistress Broomhead asks in a sickly-sweet voice.

 

“Yes, Mistress Broomhead,” she gasps and she feels her arm released from the vice grip, as her tutor disappears with a small pop.

 

She vows then and there, that the only emotion that she will ever feel from that day forth is hatred.

 

***

 

Her hands tremble ever so slightly as she undoes the buttons on her white college blouse. Letting it fall to the ground at her feet, she looks at herself in the mirror, utterly repulsed by her reflection. Her collarbones jut out and her skin is stretched tight over her ribs, her emaciated body marred by a pattern of scars, some faded with time, and some angry and new, sticking out against her pale skin like a light in the darkness.

 

Turning away from her reflection, she reaches for the black blouse and skirt on her bed and begins to re-dress herself, a sense of deep foreboding driving itself like a stake into hear heart with every button she does up. For the change from light to dark clothing meant that another lesson with her tutor was nigh, and she  _would not_  let Mistress Broomhead see the damage that she inflicted upon her. She would not give her the satisfaction of seeing bloodstains form on white blouse after white blouse.

 

She turns back to face herself, and is unsurprised to find a completely different person staring back at her out of the mirror. Her waist length hair that she had worn out for most of her life is secured in a tight bun on the top of her head, fixed there by a spell that she had created herself for the very purpose of her lessons with Mistress Broomhead. She would not let her tutor have the satisfaction of seeing her remove the one thing that she had ever liked about herself.

 

She arranges the sleeves of the blouse carefully, securing the cuffs so that the mess of puckered scars are completely concealed beneath the black material. She draws in a shaky breath and closes her eyes, attempting to wipe her mind clear of any emotions that could be drawn out and used against her in her forthcoming lesson, filling it only with potion ingredients and incantations that she may be forced to recite.

 

Slowly, she moves towards the door of her dormitory, her mind a battlefield of emotions as she forces herself to take step after wretched step towards the dungeon where Mistress Hecate Broomhead lay in wait, ready for the days’ lesson. She presses her palms into her thighs, feeling with a bony forefinger the scars beneath the fabric, each one a reminder of everything she had failed to do right. She reaches the threshold and draws in a shaky breath. She won’t let the rest of the college see her like this. She throws her shoulders back and stands up straight and tall, banishing the emotions to the depths of her mind as she moves out of her dormitory and into the bustling halls of Weirdsister College.

 

The whispers commence almost the second she reaches the main corridor. They swirl around her, bouncing off the walls as she moves quickly and with purpose towards her destination.

 

_“That’s Constance Hardbroom”_

_“She’s one of_ her  _students”_

 

“ _I wonder how long she’ll last”_

She does her best to ignore them, but their concern and pity enrages her. She deserves this, she deserves every single second of pain that Mistress Broomhead inflicts upon her. It was all that she deserved for not being perfect.

 

The temperature drops considerably as she moves lower and lower in the building and then to the underground corridors where Mistress Broomhead’s classroom resides.  Her heartbeat quickens once more as she finds herself at the end of the corridor, the wrought iron door at the end now the only barrier between her and her tutor. Smoothing the black material of her blouse in an attempt to calm her pulsing heart, she moves towards it and knocks.

 

“Enter.” Her tutors voice calls back and she takes the handle, pushing it down and opening the door without hesitation. Hesitation only caused more pain, suffering and humiliation.

 

“Good Evening Mistress Broomhead,” she says, bending stiffly into a half bow, reluctant to present the back of her neck to the older woman.

 

“Ah Constance,” her tutor says, a cruel smile finding the edge of her lips as she rises to her feet. Constance feels a short gust of wind as the door shuts suddenly behind her, “shall we begin?”

 

Constance nods curtly, moving towards the cauldron set up directly in front of Mistress Broomhead’s desk. She sits down behind it, surveying the ingredients and the recipe in front of her.

 

The Euthanasia Potion is one she has only read about in her textbooks, one so advanced that only Medicinal Potions Majors in their final year at the college were able to access the information that pertained to concocting it. There’s no time for her to wonder why she is brewing it, as she sees the timer turn over on Mistress Broomhead’s desk she knows she only has minutes, possibly even seconds to memorise the recipe.

 

She runs her finger down the list of ingredients, her sharp memory combined with the fear of what might happen should she make a mistake fuelling her as she made mental note after mental note as to what went into the potion. As her finger reaches the end of the list, there is a sharp crack and the recipe is gone in a puff of smoke. She hears Mistress Broomhead stand and move towards her.

 

“Now Constance, a Euthanasia Potion if you please,” she says, her voice layered with malice. Constance nods, not meeting her tutors gaze as she begins to circle Constance’s desk like a vulture.

 

“And I expect nothing but  _perfection_ ,” Constance hears the last word hissed in her ear and the hot breath of her tutor on the back of her neck.

 

“Yes, Mistress Broomhead.” She says, praying that the mere thirty seconds with the recipe would be enough.

 

She knew the consequences if they weren’t.

 

***

 

“ _Pathetic!_ ”

The yell reverberates around the cold dungeon, bouncing around as though it had been magically magnified and enchanted to linger in the air for many moments after the cry had been uttered.

 

She braces herself for the pain that is about to come, and is not disappointed as Mistress Broomhead shoots a severing curse at her. It hits her in the left shoulder and she grunts in pain as she feels one of her fresher wounds re-open and begin to bleed freely down her arm, the damage thankfully masked by her dark coloured blouse.

 

“What have I always told you Constance?” Mistress Broomhead says, appearing beside her from the other end of the room and grabbing her wrist, “Your emotions,” she twists her arm behind her back and begins to see how far she can go, “are always” Constance cries out, unable to stop herself as Mistress Broomhead pulls her arm up further than it had ever gone before, “ _getting in the way!”_ With a final yank, Constance feels her arm break in her tutors’ hands before being thrust forward so that she sprawls ungraciously on the floor, her body racked with involuntary sobs as she cradles her arm.

 

“How do you ever expect to master a transference spell if you cannot even withstand a little pain?” Mistress Broomhead says, directing her casting hand at Constance so that she rose back up into a standing position.

 

Constance fights to control herself, she fights to shut of the pain centre of her brain as she forces her arms to cross themselves, casting fingers present and ready on her left arm. She visualises the other end of the room, next to Mistress Broomhead’s desk and thinks the incantation with all of her might, hoping, praying that it would work so that she could go and tend to her wounds from the lesson.

 

“ _USELESS!”_  

 

She can feel Mistress Broomhead’s breath in her face and knows that it hasn’t worked. She has failed, again.

 

“I do not know why I even bother with you Constance,” she barks, “You are so _weak_ and _talentless_.”

 

“I-I’m sorry Mistress Broomhead,” she stammers, fighting every impulse in her body to scream and cry in agony, “I-I’ll do better next time.”

 

“Ah but Constance,” Mistress Broomhead says softly, “I expect perfection the first time around.”

 

And with a small pop, she disappears in a shower of sparks.

 

Constance backs into the wall, her screams of agony and shame bubbling forth at once as she sinks to the floor, wishing that she had some of the Euthanasia Potion that she had been forced to test three times in a row before Mistress Broomhead had been satisfied that she had made the potion correctly. Each time dying slowly and being painfully revived by Mistress Broomhead. The dying part was easy, it was the coming back to life that was hard.

 

She doesn’t know how long she sits there for, bracing herself against the wall as she tries to manoeuvre her broken arm back into position. She knows healing spells that will set it but she can’t quite remember the words, her brain clouded over with pain and humiliation at the lesson that had just ensued.

 

It’s a few moments before she notices the burning smell that has filled the classroom, and a few more before she registers what is happening. It is only when the bright orange flames begin to engulf the potions cabinet at the other end of the room does she realise her situation.

 

Clambering painfully to her feet, she desperately attempts to cast a water spell with her non-dominant hand

 

_“Aqua maris, ignem terrae, nec inter se seiungi”_ she cries, and a small spout of water bursts forth from her finger tips, doing absolutely nothing to quell the blaze that had now spread from the potions cupboard to Mistress Broomhead’s desk.

 

_“Aqua maris, ignem terrae, nec inter se seiungi!”_ She cries once more, this time attempting to use both hands, pain shooting up and down her broken right arm with every move she makes. The stream, though stronger this time, once again has no effect. Panic taking hold of her, she looks around desperately for an escape route, only to find that the door has disappeared.

 

It is then that she realises what must be done. This was no freak accident. This was her. This was Hecate Broomhead and her twisted way of teaching. The only way out of this room was via transference spell.

 

Constance shrieks as she realises she has stood still for a second too long, the ever-growing blaze spreading from the front desk to the long rows of benches, seeming to quicken with each object it consumed. The flames lick at her ankles and the heat starts to become too much to bear.

 

Gritting her teeth, she crosses her arms, resting her casting fingers lightly in the crook of her left elbow, trying desperately to ignore the excruciating pain in her right arm. She visualises her bedroom, her warm bed with her cat, Morgana curled up on the end, she visualises taking a steaming bath and setting her arm and tending to her wounds and thinks the incantation with all of her might.

 

_Humanum transferre in loco quietem,_

She can feel the blaze creeping up on her, the flames scalding her skin and burning holes in her clothes and shoes.

 

_Humanum transferre in loco quietem_

 

The flames are nearly fully upon her, she only has a few seconds left.

 

_Humanum transferre in loco quietem_

She can barely breathe for the smoke billowing around her. Surely this was it, surely this was the day that she, Constance Hardbroom, would meet her demise at the hands of Mistress Hecate Broomhead.

 

_Humanum transferre in loco quietem_

 

 

And then suddenly, it’s all gone. She opens her eyes, half expecting to see her tutor standing at the reformed door, anger ablaze in her eyes and a stream of insults at her lips in regard to her protégée’s incompetence. But to her immense surprise, she sees her room, exactly how she had left it earlier in the day.

 

Hardly daring to believe her luck, she moves towards her bed, shedding her destroyed clothes as she went, gasping slightly as she remembered her broken arm, the pain of it lost in the fear that had enveloped her in the midst of the blaze.

 

“ _Brachium emendo.”_ she mutters, casting with her non-dominant hand and feels the bones move slightly to join back together.

 

She cannot bring herself to tend to the rest of her cuts, burns and abrasions and instead sinks onto her bed, her eyes fluttering shut as she falls into a deep, exhausted sleep.

 

Dreams, for some, were a place of escape, but for Constance Hardbroom, there was no escape, only reliving the torture of the day, seeing her tutors’ face swim before her eyes and hearing that high, cold laugh as she delivered her final, wicked blow of the lesson.

 

***

 

Constance stirs slightly in her sleep, a muscle in her face twitching ever so slightly as she relives the latest of Mistress Broomhead’s lessons, feeling every jab of pain over and over again in technicolour as her mind turns inward on itself, releasing all the pent-up memories and fear. For as hard as she tries, she cannot control her emotions whilst unconscious.

 

And then suddenly she is being pulled through layers and layers of sleep and her eyes fly open to meet the menacing, penetrating black ones of her tutor.

 

“Mistress Broomhead?” she says groggily, half convinced she is still dreaming.

 

“Good Evening Constance,” her tutor says quietly and Constance hears a soft whoosh travel around the room, her curtains shutting themselves and the light at the bottom of the door extinguishing.

 

“Mistress Broomhead, what are you…?” the end of her sentence does not leave her lips as she is lifted from the bed and suspended in mid-air, she shrieks involuntarily as her tutor circles below, a cruel smile playing at the edges of her mouth.

And then Constance’s world is once more enveloped in a shower of pain as her limbs begin to contort into impossible angles and shapes. She is all too aware of her hair, worn out for bed, that was now dangling dangerously in the eyes of her tutor.

 

_Capilli autem retinent, facta est bun durare_ she thinks desperately, the words bubbling quickly to the forefront of her mind in her moment of need and she feels her hair begin to twist itself into a long braid before curling around and around and affixing itself to her head.

 

Mistress Broomhead stops her pacing, and Constance’s limbs spring back into their original positions, every inch of her body gently throbbing.

 

“Clever Constance,” she remarks patronisingly, “and here I was thinking you spent hours each morning perfecting your up do.”

 

Constance bites back a retort, a mental battle raging inside of her as she desperately attempts to clamber around and stuff every single emotion back into the small box at the back of her brain which would keep them contained until Mistress Broomhead left again.

 

“Nothing to say, Constance?” Mistress Broomhead teases, “Well, I’m not sure I expected any less from someone as weak as you.”

 

All the wind is knocked out of her as she is slammed from the ceiling to the floor and back again before the pain starts once more. She can’t even draw breath to scream as she writhes around uncontrollably in the air as the pain that enveloped her intensifies. She prays for death’s sweet, cold embrace, for surely anything would be better than this.

 

Casting hands trembling, she directs them towards Mistress Broomhead, she knows that she will pay the consequences but for now, she would take the moment of respite. “ _Protego Maxima”_ she cries, a jolt of white light streaming from her fingers and encircling her, breaking the older witch’s enchantment. The pain lifts immediately and Constance drops to the floor like a stone. The force of the backfiring enchantment lifting her tutor off her feet and throwing her backwards across the room.

 

“How _dare_ you,” Mistress Broomhead says, rising to her feet gracefully with a deathly malice in her voice, “I always knew you were weak, Constance but I never knew that you would stoop as low as a protection charm.”

 

“Leave my quarters,” Constance says, the streaming ball of white light around her giving her confidence she never knew she had, “I did not invite you in here, you are not welcome!” Her voice quavers on the word welcome and she digs her fingernails into her palms to steel her nerve, casting fingers at the ready should her tutor attempt to break through the protection charm.

 

“I shall see you in Potions, Constance,” she says, her voice dripping with spite, and disappearing with a soft pop.

 

Constance knows that her ensuing lesson will be awful as she moves into her bathroom and brings out her cauldron from under the sink, conjuring a fire with a snap of her fingers underneath as she prepares the potion that she has become so dependent on over her time spent under the tutelage of Mistress Hecate Broomhead in the Advanced Witch Training Program at Weirdsister.

 

She sets the mixture to brew and stands up, raising her casting hands so that they are pointed at her door. She had only ever studied protective enchantments in her Magical Law Enforcement elective that she had taken before she had signed up for the Witch Training College, back when she was a normal student at Weirdsister, back before Hecate Broomhead darkened her doorway.  She murmurs the words that she has read and memorised over and over again casting enchantment after enchantment around her room, knowing that if she was ever discovered she would surely be expelled or worse for the use of unauthorised magic, but she did not care. Expulsion would be a blessing at this point, and the unknown worse that could occur? well, what could they possibly put her through that she hadn’t already experienced at the hands of Mistress Hecate Broomhead?

 

Sitting back down at her cauldron and waiting for the Wide-Awake Potion to finish its brew time, she draws her knees up to her chest, casting fingers resting cautiously on her knees.

 

From that day forth, Constance would never be seen without at least one of her hands curled into a casting position.

 

***

 

Constance can hardly believe that the day had arrived.

 

Graduation.

 

The concept that had been dancing at the very edge of her reach for so long was finally upon her.

 

She surveys herself in the mirror in her dormitory for the last time, nose wrinkling at her haggard appearance. She is thinner than ever, a result of the countless times she has been denied food or water for not being able to perfect a spell or potion within three tries. She had selected a black dress for her graduation day, ankle length and long sleeved with a turtleneck collar to boot. Perfect for hiding evidence of her experiences here.

 

Her hair tight in its bun that everyone now came to expect of her, she vanishes her bags and looks around the room for one last time.

 

She would not miss it. She would not miss the memories that came with this place. The memories of healing her wounds and broken bones, the memories of crying herself to sleep during the early days, and the memories of a dark figure lingering in the corner of her room, ready to pounce at any second.

 

Crossing her arms, she visualises the great hall, where she would finally walk across the stage, receive her qualifications that she had been through hell and back to obtain, and leave this place once and for all.

 

“Ah, Hardbroom,” she hears a voice say as she materialises in the great hall, “Just in time, we’re about to commence the ceremony.”

 

He clicks his fingers and Constance feels a gown wrap itself around her shoulders over her tight black dress and a cap appear on her head. She moves towards the door to the great hall and joins the twelve other pupils that have made it this far. She doesn’t know any of them, doesn’t know if they too have suffered under Mistress Broomhead, or if they had had a completely different experience in the Witch Training program.

 

The staff walk onto the stage and Constance’s heart involuntarily seizes she sees Mistress Broomhead, the not yet healed gashes in her left arm twinging slightly.

 

She’s not listening as the Dean drones on and on and on about how they are the College’s most successful, most prestigious students and her well wishes for the future. She’s trying desperately not to think about the acceptance letter sitting in the bottom of her bag from a school so far north and so secluded that she was sure not even sure that Mistress Broomhead was aware it existed. She was surprised at how quickly Cackles Academy had responded to her application for Potions Mistress despite the fact that her graduation date had not yet passed. She had thought for sure that no place would want her as a member of their staff, and would have to ask Mistress Broomhead for a reference, something she knew that she would have paid dearly.

 

“Miss Constance Hardbroom,” the Dean calls and she stands robotically, heart thumping as she moves towards the stage, “Doctorate of Potions, Doctorate of Enchantment Development, Doctorate of Magical Transportation, Masters of Magical Education.”

 

She moves across the stage stiffly to accept the fruits of the last eight years spent at Weirdsister. There is no warmth or pride in Mistress Broomhead’s eyes as she watches her protégée receive the highest accolades that Weirdsister College could bestow. Constance feels the beady black pupils boring into the back of her head as if they were fishing for any emotions she may be feeling.

 

The celebrations conclude and Constance sees her window. Everyone is mulling around, filtering out of the door slowly and steadily. She snaps her fingers and her bags and broomstick appear at her side. She moves towards the doorway, determinedly not looking back on any of her graduating class.

 

“ _Constance_ ,” she hears the voice before Mistress Broomhead materialises in front of her.

 

“Good afternoon Mistress Broomhead,” she says, wishing that she had left immediately after the ceremony.

 

“I just wanted to offer my congratulations on your graduation, a fine list of achievements you have accrued here in your time at the College,” she said, her voice passive but her eyes telling a different story.

 

“Thank you Mistress Broomhead,” she says shortly, hoping that was all the older witch wanted so that she could continue on her way.

 

“As your tutor, I would also like to give you a piece of advice,” she said, leaning down so that her lips were right next to Constance’s ear and muttering the ensuing words so softly that Constance is barely aware that they were said, “I _own_ you, Constance Hardbroom. Don’t ever think you can evade me.”

 

Chills run down Constance’s spine as Mistress Broomhead disappears before her eyes, leaving the way forward clear.

 

Stepping across the threshold of Weirdsister College and out into greater Cambridge for the last time does not have the desired feeling that Constance has been wistfully thinking about for months, instead now plagued with worry and anxiety over the parting words her tutor had given her.

 

Taking out a small bottle of invisibility potion she had brewed up the night before, she takes a sip, enough to get her out of the city and on her way to Cackles Academy. Casting an invisibility spell on her bags and broomstick she takes her seat and whispers “Up and away.”

 

Never looking back as the magically disguised stone building became smaller and smaller until it was a mere speck in the distance.

 

***

She stands at the window of the staffroom, observing the last of the students leaving for their summer break, the fingers of her left-hand drumming absentmindedly on the windowsill, and the right curled into her casting position. The darkness settles in around her, and over the forest that she surveyed as she ponders on the events of the last school term, her mind wondering further than she had allowed it to in years.

 

The warm summers’ night seemed to evoke something in Constance, and she did not stop herself from wondering back into the darkest corners of her mind, ones that had remained untouched in the four years since she had left Weirdsister and the Advanced Witch Training program behind. She feels her pulse quicken as she ponders on the memories, in two minds about whether she should put up the spells that kept them at bay again.

 

She runs a hand over her arm, feeling the outlines of the maze of scars that told the story of her time under Mistress Broomhead. She was satisfied that nobody at Cackles would ever be able find out about her past, and she would not volunteer the information willingly. The name Hecate Broomhead still plagued her each waking moment, and terrified her every time she would have to sleep to counter the effects of her Wide-Awake potion habit. She still hears her high, cold laugh, her jeers, taunts and insults as if she were standing next to her.

But away from the terror of the daily lessons with Mistress Broomhead and in the nurturing environment of Cackles Academy, Constance feels differently than she used to about her old tutor, she feels not hate, not fear, but pity. Pity for a woman who knew nothing else but violence and torture to achieve her ends. Pity for a woman so deeply entrenched in dark magic that she needed to break every person who came under her instruction.

 

But she had not broken Constance Hardbroom.

 

Constance was the one exception to a very strict rule, the youngest graduate of Weirdsister to complete four degrees in eight years with honours, the youngest deputy headmistress that Cackles Academy had ever seen. Feared and respected by her first years and older students alike, Constance knew that even if she could not feel it in her heart, that there was a success story somewhere there.

 

As she gazes out over the dark sky, she softly mutters the spell that would force the memories of her old tutor back into the depths of her mind, and as the last memories of her ordeal fade she finds herself hoping that Mistress Broomhead was somewhere out there, praying.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: If you have made it to the end of this monster oneshot, thank you so much for reading! I started typing and before I knew what was happening this was 6k long. This is my first time writing for the Worst Witch, after having rediscovered the 1998 TV series that I watched as a kid, so I hope I've got everything down-pat! Constance is my absolute favourite character so I just had to explore her past with Mistress Broomhead, especially after the episode "Just Like Clockwork".
> 
> Obviously I don't own The Worst Witch or the song "Praying" - I like to think I would not have to be working a full time job if I did.
> 
> I would really appreciate it if you could leave some feedback as to what you thought :)
> 
> Cheers,  
> Nay xx


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